It is not all that easy to make a baby.
I mean, there is a certain irony involved when guys who spend the first
years of their sex lives preoccupied with not getting girls pregnant (and
when I first started, condoms were still in) then reverse their thinking and
become obsessed with conception and not its contra.
Yes, it can become an obsession. And it can divest the most glorious
aspect of a happy married life of its naturalness and spontaneity. I mean,
to program your thinking (unfortunate verb, "program"; it suggests a
machine)-to program your thinking about the act of love in accordance with
rules, calendars, strategy
("Wouldn't it be better tomorrow morning, 01?") can be a source of
discomfort, disgust and ultimately terror.
For when you see that your layman's knowledge and (you assume) normal
healthy efforts are not succeeding in the matter of increase-and-multiply,
it can bring the most awful thoughts to your mind.
"I'm sure you understand, Oliver, that 'sterility' would have nothing
to do with 'virility.'" Thus Dr. Mortimer Sheppard to me during the first
conversation, when Jenny and I had finally decided we needed expert
consultation.
"He understands, doctor," said Jenny for me, knowing without my ever
having mentioned it that the notion of being sterile-of possibly being
sterile-was devastating to me. Didn't her voice even suggest that she hoped,
if an insufficiency were to be discovered, it would be her own?
But the doctor had merely been spelling it all out for us, telling us
the worst, before going on to say that there was still a great possibility
that both of us were okay, and that we might soon be proud parents. But of
course we would both undergo a battery of tests. Complete physicals. The
works. (I don't want to repeat the unpleasant specifics of this kind of
thorough investigation.)
We went through the tests on a Monday. Jenny during the day, I after
work (I was fantastically immersed in the legal world). Dr. Sheppard called
Jenny in again that Friday explaining that his nurse had screwed up and he
needed to check a few things again. When Jenny told me of the revisit, I
began to suspect that perhaps he had found the.., insufficiency with her. I
think she suspected the same. The nurse-screwing-up alibi is pretty trite.
When Dr. Sheppard called me at Jonas and Marsh, I was almost certain.
Would I please drop by his office on the way home? When I heard this was not
to be a three-way conversation ("I spoke to Mrs. Barrett earlier today"), my
suspicions were confirmed. Jenny could not have children. Although, let's
not phrase it in the absolute, Oliver; remember Sheppard mentioned there
were things like corrective surgery and so forth. But I couldn't concentrate
at all, and it was foolish to wait it out till five o'clock. I called
Sheppard back and asked if he could see me in the early afternoon. He said
okay.
"Do you know whose fault it is?" I asked, not mincing any words.
"I really wouldn't say 'fault,' Oliver," he replied.
"Well, okay, do you know which of us is malfunctioning?"
"Yes. Jenny."
I had been more or less prepared for this, but the finality with which
the doctor pronounced it still threw me. He wasn't saying anything more, so
I assumed he wanted a statement of some sort from me.
"Okay, so we'll adopt kids. I mean, the important thing is that we love
each other, right?"
And then he told me.
"Oliver, the problem is more serious than that. Jenny is very sick."
"Would you define 'very sick,' please?"
"She's dying."
"That's impossible," I said.
And I waited for the doctor to tell me that it was all a grim joke.
"She is, Oliver," he said. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this."
I insisted that he had made some mistake-perhaps that idiot nurse of
his had screwed up again and given him the wrong X rays or something. He
replied with as much compassion as he could that Jenny's blood test had been
repeated three times. There was absolutely no question about the diagnosis.
He would of course have to refer us-me-Jenny to a hematologist. In fact, he
could suggest- I waved my hand to cut him off. I wanted silence for
a minute. Just silence to let it all sink in. Then a thought occurred
to me.
"What did you tell Jenny, doctor?"
"That you were both all right."
"She bought it?"
"I think so."
"When do we have to tell her?"
"At this point, it's up to you.
Up to me! Christ, at this point I didn't feel up to breathing.
The doctor explained that what therapy they had for Jenny's form of
leukemia was merely palliative-it could relieve, it might retard, but it
could not reverse. So at that point it was up to me. They could withhold
therapy for a while.
But at that moment all I really could think of was how obscene the
whole fucking thing was.
"She's only twenty-four!" I told the doctor, shouting, I think. He
nodded, very patiently, knowing full well Jenny's age, but also
understanding what agony this was for me. Finally I realized that I couldn't
just sit in this man's office forever. So I asked him what to do. I mean,
what I should do. He told me to act as normal as possible for as long as
possible. I thanked him and left.
Normal! Normal!